


Familiar Comforts

by elfriniol



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Genderqueer Character, Other, Sex, The Witcher AU, i mean there's monster slaying, i wrote this in a week as an escape from real life bs, not too explicit tho, of course there's sex, sorcerer hux, violence/gore typical for the witcher series, witcher kylo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-13 18:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfriniol/pseuds/elfriniol
Summary: Being a witcher is hard. Where Ren struggles to make enough coin for a living, others find opportunities worth exploiting solely for personal gain, often without any scruples. In Tretogor, the "others" take form of a rather self-assured sorcerer.However, through an unexpected series of events, Ren might gain something more than monetary reward.





	Familiar Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> This is nothing more and nothing less than a self-indulgent experiment, an attempt to emulate Sapkowski's writing (I can't judge if I succeeded) and to bring the world of witchers and mages and monsters to life in a little different setting, but familiar enough to recognize its distinctive features.
> 
> If you've read the books, then you know what to expect content-wise and I would die for any feedback because I can't help but wonder if I did them justice.
> 
> If you haven't, then I should warn you for graphic description of violence during fighting scenes (witchers kill monsters for a living) as well as descriptions of consequences of a monster attack (not that graphic, more on the vague side of things, but still there). I would die for any feedback from you as well because I wonder if it's readable to someone who isn't familiar with the verse.
> 
> If you played the games, I based most of the things here from the books, but it should be mostly compatible (I played the first one and the Wild Hunt). Again I would die for any feedback from you because I'm plain curious.
> 
> Huge thanks goes to [frapandfurious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frapandfurious/pseuds/frapandfurious) for beta-reading, listening to me rant and encouraging me to share this, which is something I initially didn't plan to do. <3

_Shapeshifting, also known as polymorphy, is an advanced magical skill, achieved only by handful of mages (q.v) through long and rigorous training. It is deliberate and thus cannot be confused with transformation induced by curses, such as lycanthropy (q.v). By the power of will, a mage can liken himself to an animal whose shape is determined by the mage's spiritual affinity. Since the mage is limited to only one form to take, the nature of arcane shapeshifting fundamentally differs from that of some magical beings, such as dopplers (q.v)._

_A notable shapeshifter was the legendary Philippa Alhard (q.v), who could transform herself into an owl._

_Effenberg and Talbot_

_Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, volume XV_

 

 

_We know little about love. Love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape. Try to define the shape of a pear._

_Dandelion_

_Half a Century of Poetry_

 

The downtown area was empty just as the royal guard captain promised. The monster – a basilisk if the few witnesses could be believed – prowled these parts after nightfall, not every day, but often enough to suspect it has fallen into a routine of preying on careless drunks or hopeless beggars. Easy hunt. Of course, it wasn't the beggars or local pisspoor townsfolk whose deaths prompted the guard to set a bounty on the downtown monster's head – a member of the city council was the most recent victim, found with his guts strewn all the way across the alley that became his grave. Nobody knew why he went there when the whole of Tretogor was ablaze with gossip about a mysterious murdering force lurking in the shadows. It must have been an ugly death – torn up by claws as sharp as razor and beak that could crack a skull. Not to mention the acidic poison. It was a wonder the councillor could be identified at all, but he was, and now there was a bounty, because the city would rather pay up for one corrupt man instead of a dozen commoners.

Ren couldn't complain. Coin was coin, and he had to eat.

A sound, an unmistakable beat of a wing pulsed through the still air, followed by a thud of something large and clawed on the stone-paved ground. It came from behind a corner, toward the slums, and slowly continued away from him. The night prowl has begun.

Quietly, like a cat, Ren jumped down from the roof he used as a hideout and made toward the scraping of claws on cobblestones. He crept along the wall, keeping to the shadow that could fool the monster but not him, not with how his eyes were altered to see in the dark as if it was day. As he rounded a corner, his suspicion was confirmed – a basilisk, barely adult, probably claiming a first territory for itself.

And last, Ren thought as he reached over his shoulder to the familiar hilt of his silver sword, drawing it slow enough to avoid the scraping of the blade against the scabbard. Its weight was a cold comfort in his hand; the engraved runes gleamed strangely in the moonlight.

With the element of surprise on his side, Ren sprang forward, inhumanely fast, and brought the sword on the creature's back in a wide arch. It screeched loud enough to make his ears ring, but nowhere near enough to hinder him; as the beast turned to clap at him with its diamond-hard beak, he feigned a stab at its wing and cut at its neck on the downstroke, sidestepping the following sputter of blood and acid. The monster's strength was dwindling and its fight for survival would make it all the more dangerous; wanting to set this quickly, Ren folded his fingers in the Aard sign and sent the basilisk flying into a pile of scraps at one house. With no time to waste, he made the first step toward it.

And froze.

It was as if an invisible force enveloped him and suspended him in time, except time was ticking away, not even the most skilled of mages had the power to control time. The basilisk crawled out of the rubble as if knowing this and scurried away from Ren, down the alley and into darkness. He cursed, strained against his bonds, to no avail.

"Ah, a witcher. Of course," came a voice behind him, cold and ringing through the sudden stillness of air like hammer hitting anvil. He tried to turn but the spell – it had to be some kind of magic – held him even tighter.

He needn't have tried though, as the owner of the voice came before him. A man, tall and slender, dressed in clothes that were so out of place next to a road-battered monster-slayer in a poor neighborhood. As he lifted his hand Ren noticed an elaborate ring, a golden engraved band with a fiery gem set in it, and Ren wanted to scream or strangle him or both. Of all people, he ran into a warlock.

"I watched you fight and I need that basilisk – or rather, its certain body parts. Thank you for weakening it, but I'm taking it over from here."

Ren strained with a grunt, but a mere flick of the mage's fingers rooted him in place. "You have no idea what it's capable of," he growled. That he was stripping Ren of desperately needed money he left to himself.

"I think I can handle a half-dead animal without damaging it any further. After all, I've handled you," the mage said with a little smile, eyes hard and calculating. Ren wanted to argue the fact he referred to a highly dangerous ornithosaur as an animal as if it were a cow or a dog but the mage turned on his heel and disappeared in the same place as the accursed basilisk.

The spell wore off soon after and Ren began his pursuit. Tracking the basilisk down wasn't difficult – the creature was bleeding profusely, leaving a clear trail where it was headed, partly distorted by the mage's footsteps. Ren clenched his teeth. He hated mages and their endless plotting. Witches and sorcerers, elven or human, all of them equally.

The trail led him to a sewer entrance where it continued underground, and Ren had to correct himself. He didn't hate all mages equally – he hated this particular hex-maniac most of all.

Although the trail was barely visible on the filthy pavement, it still provided enough direction to the basilisk's whereabouts, and after two turns, Ren didn't need it anymore – the ruckus coming from one of the high-ceilinged rooms would wake the dead. He readied himself for another fight as he dashed toward the entrance, but nothing could have prepared him for the scene inside.

The basilisk – or whatever remained of it – just disappeared in a monstrous mouth behind rows of sharp, yellowed teeth. Pugnant stench erupted from the monster's bulbous body and Ren had to suppress the urge to vomit. Compared to this, the sewers smelled like an orchard in full bloom. One of the creature's four massive tentacles whipped through the air and Ren braced himself, but it wasn't aimed at him, and it was only now that he noticed the mage standing on a pile of garbage to his right getting smitten to the ground. Ren did not hesitate, even if he had every reason to for getting dragged into a zeugl's den of all places and hewn off the tentacle before it could wrap around the mage's legs. The stump twitched in the filth, gory and useless.

Ren avoided most of the assault of the zeugl's remaining tentacles, maimed one as he danced ever closer to its gaping maw. This zeugl was old, one of its eyes misted over, and Ren was ready to exploit this weakness. He approached from its blind side and leaped up, planted his feet at either side of the zeugl's mouth, and drove the blade into its soft, fleshy interior, putting all his weight into it. Fumes of rot and decay washed over him and he held his breath, then pulled the sword out and stabbed again, but one of the tentacles sweeped from the side and flung him away, into the cesspool and sludge. His ribs hurt from where he hit the edge of the pavement.

Suddenly the far end of the room erupted in flames; Ren covered his eyes on instinct. The zeugl let out a thunderous roar that shook walls, the murky water in which it nestled brought to boiling point. As if through a haze, Ren remembered the warlock – he almost forgot all about him, and definitely didn't expect him to be still here, and yet there stood the mage in a vortex of flames, jaw set, one hand raised toward where the sky would have been had they not been underground, so sober and furious. It almost seemed the fire itself coursed through him, and perhaps it did – while Ren wasn't considerably versed in the arcane, he was aware that fire was the most dangerous element to use and extremely difficult to tame. If the warlock sold his soul to gain its favor, he would have believed it. It wouldn't be the strangest thing he'd encountered on his travels.

Just before the heat could turn unbearable it started to dissipate and soon the only signs of the fire were the sharp stench of burnt flesh and garbage and the zeugl's steaming carcass. Ren got to his feet, sheathed his sword. His boots were soaked and squelching with every step. It was revolting.

The mage wasn't any better off, and a twisted sort of satisfaction washed over Ren. His clothes, while more of a practical kind, were unsalvageable, maybe save for the auburn leather trousers that looked more durable than the very fine camisole embellished with red and gold brocate. That alone probably cost more than anything in Ren's possession.

"I could have handled it," the mage spat in his face.

"You'd be rotting away along with that basilisk. Shame, you'd have your alchemy ingredients then."

If the mage was furious before, now he turned livid. It occurred to Ren that he might meet the zeugl's fate, but echoes of a scream caught their attention and broke the tension. "Drowners. You can go have a spellcasting practice, I'm leaving," he said already halfway out of the room. He heard wet footsteps following him, a particularly juicy curse as the footsteps turned into wading through the sewer canal, and he couldn't help the ugly smile twisting his features.

He chanced a glance behind when he emerged on a deserted street. The mage was still behind him, his ruined appearance all the starker in the pale light of dawn. Serves him well, Ren thought.

"Bloody butcher," continued the mage when he caught up with him, "I needed that acid. If you hadn't cut its venom pouch open, I needn't have intervened."

"Had you let me do my job, you would have it now. Hell, I would've given it to you for free just to get rid of you and your whining. But no, sorcerers have to meddle – though it takes guts from the likes of you to get involved with mutants and feces, I give you that."

He barely finished and the mage was before him, eyes sparkling with barely suppressed rage. They weren't unlike a brewing storm, in all kinds of grey and blue. "Don't act like it's only my fault."

"You attacked me!"

"If I did you'd be one big stinking smudge on the wall, you-," he scrunched his nose, which looked amusing, cute even, "-you freak! Monster fucker! Next to me you are a poor parlor trick, it's a wonder you survived your little hallucinogenic trip!"

Ren snorted. He was used to insults from illiterate villagers, but was only seldom subjected to anything more eloquent than "filthy mutant". "And? As if mages don't undergo alterations, most of them aesthetic. How many mandrake potions did you use to get this?" He pinched the mage's cheek for emphasis, rosy red from emotion; had the circumstances been different, Ren could have imagined himself proposing something. The mage was pretty – bright red hair, high cheekbones, haughty nose. Only his temper was as foul as striga's – came with the profession probably. "You look better than a high end Toussaint whore."

The mage replied with a vicious backhand. "I can roast you like the disgusting pig you are! Filthy hexer! Witchman! You should be grovelling and begging me for mercy, you mutated whoreson!"

"Feisty," Ren said. His lip stang where the mage's ring tore it. "I like it. Too bad you smell of shit."

"So do you!" The mage shouted. He waved one hand and a portal opened behind him; Ren had half mind to try and follow him, but picking a fight with a mage in his own territory definitely counted as one of his not so bright ideas. Instead he chose to stand firmly in place, satisfied with the heated response he'd drawn from him – if he was to leave Tretogor unfed and coinless, he would at least make the one responsible miserable.

It was by definition impossible to slam a door in a portal, but somehow the mage did exactly that, and was gone. Ren evaluated the situation: He needed a bath, badly, and a thorough washing of all his gear. That would most likely eat up all his remaining money. Then he needed to talk to the guard captain – merely the thought of the conversation made his head throb with a dull ache. Devil knew if the captain would believe him the basilisk was dead.

Stupid sorcerer.

First the captain, he decided. This way at least the sewer part of his story couldn't be disputed.

 

*

 

"No proof, no reward," the captain said. She was constantly watching the new recruits training out of the corner of her eye, even though they were supervised by a very loud commandant. Not the best of habits, Ren concluded. If he intended to attack, she would miss the benefit of paying him full attention. "Those are the rules. I take it the creature's alive then?"

"No. It tried to hide in the sewers and came across a zeugl."

"A what?"

"A zeugl. It's a rather common monster in bigger cities, it thrives on pollution and garbage. Sewage system is a perfect habitat, given the amount of filth it feeds off."

"I can only imagine."

She didn't believe him. Ren couldn't blame her – in her place, he wouldn't believe himself either. "It mauled the basilisk before I could get to it. If you want proof, its charred remains are still down there. I suppose there wasn't any bounty on a zeugl, correct?"

"Not that I know of. Did I hear right 'charred remains'?"

"I had a run in with a sorcerer."

Only now did the captain look fully at him. "You're telling one compelling story, witcher."

He stared directly into her eyes, not menacingly but his eyes were disquieting in themselves, too yellow, too sharp, not at all human.

She weathered it better than most, yet there was the unease, the apparent effort. Exactly what Ren was hoping for. "Would have preferred to be spared that part, I assure you. Are there any mages in the city? Tall, red hair, young looking, even for a warlock. Swears worse than a sailor. Know anyone like that?"

"That sounds like Hux," she said. He kept staring to prompt her to continue. "He lives here, yes. Offers his services to nobles, nobody else can afford it. Apart from that, no-one really knows what he does – no-one is really keen on finding out in the first place. He has a house in the palace district, near the government building."

"In the city? Took him more for a lighthouse dweller."

"That he may very well be even if he stood in the middle of the fish market in Novigrad. He's made a point of isolating himself from the city life, and we accept that. Appreciate it, even. We're not overly fond of magic in Redania." She spat. "What did he do to you?"

Ren summarized the rest of the encounter as briefly as he could. He felt like he was wasting time, this was gossip without purpose. He smelled worse than a stablehand and the commander's shouting at recruits started to annoy him.

"I know this is no reward," the captain said at last, beckoning him inside the station, "but my men confiscated a briefcase full of alchemy supplies. The previous owner didn't have a proper license for such substances." She pulled out a small, rectangular case with an arched lid, wood battered with use. When she opened it, there were six flasks made of sturdy, dark glass, without any labels. Next to them, in a small compartment, were several linen pouches. "It's no use rotting away in the evidence cabinet, and we don't know what to do with it anyway."

Ren frowned; the briefcase was peculiar, oddly specific. He examined one of the pouches – dried mushrooms, similar to those used during mutation processes. Opening one of the flasks, he took a whiff. "These are witcher elixirs."

The captain raised her eyebrow. "That's unexpected."

"Not unheard of though," he said as he took a whiff of another flask. Black blood – whoever made it knew what they were doing. "It wouldn't be the first time a peasant robbed a witcher, dead or incapacitated."

"Would these be any use to anyone else?"

He put the flask away. "No. Not really. To normal organism, they would act like poison. A mage might find a use for them, but I wouldn't advise it."

"Then it's settled," said the captain at last. "Take it. I can't give out rewards for monsters without a trophy as proof, but this falls to my jurisdiction. I will definitely sleep better knowing it's in the hands of an expert."

Ren nodded – this was an unexpected but a welcome surprise. "Thanks."

 

*

 

He didn't leave Tretogor as he thought he would. There was also a chance that once he would, it wouldn't be unfed and coinless. He only hoped there would be no self-centered mages to ruin his assignment this time around.

Ellenhart's manor was a typical example of a house of Redanian elite – grand, imposing architecture, with a garden that could compete against the ones in the royal palace in terms of size. Ren let the messenger boy lead him through the ironwrought gate, creaking and intimidating. If he looked closer, he could see flaking paint and corrosion spreading through the bars.

The manor itself wasn't any better of. While the floors seemed sturdy and well-made, the oak wood was worn and scratched. Walls lined with paintings of various members of the Ellenhart family could use refurbishing, as well as the armor suits lining them. No doubt the building was cared for, but daily life left its traces and no attempt was made at erasing them.

At times like this, Ren was glad for being only one step above a vagrant. Had he been a declining noble, he would have had harder time accepting poverty.

The boy led him to an ornate, massive door, opened it and let Ren enter. On the far side of the room sat a well-dressed man, his age showing in the deep creases bracketing his mouth and greying hair and beard. Viscount Ellenhart, Ren assumed.

"The witcher, my lord," the boy announced and took his leave.

"Good." Ellenhart rose from his chair and crossed toward a cabinet. "Have a seat, witcher. Is there any name I can call you?"

Ren couldn't remember the last time he sat in a cushioned chair. "You may call me Ren, sir."

"I hope you don't have anything against brandy, Ren."

"No, sir."

"Good. That's the first step to mutual trust – sharing a drink." He offered one cup to Ren. "For the job I am about to offer you, discretion is a top priority. Do we understand each other so far?"

"Of course."

"I'm glad," said Ellenhart, raising his cup. "To mutual understanding, then."

The brandy was strong, its warmth trickling down his throat and pooling in his stomach.

"You see," Ellenhart continued, "there is a little... Unpleasantness going on."

"Never in my life was I called to work on something pleasant."

"Cutting down to business. I like that."

"And yet you keep dancing around the issue. I thought we established our cooperation on mutual trust."

"Very well." He leaned back in his armchair and his wrinkles seemed to deepen. "There is a vampire in the manor."

Ren cocked his head to the side. Interesting. "What made you think that, sir?"

"You think I'm lying-"

"No," Ren interrupted, "but a vampire can be a fleder, an alp, a garkain, and all have very different hunting methods. I need to identify it before I can confront it."

Ellenhart seemed to calm down. "Alright. You see, everyone I tried to hire to deal with the son-of-a-bitch either laughed into my face or bolted." He took another swig of the brandy. "It first happened about three months ago – one of the chambermaids ran screaming to the hall, clutching her neck and deathly pale. At first she couldn't even say what happened, it took all eternity for her to calm down. When she did, she finally let us see what was wrong, and there it was clear as day, two clean bitemarks. Everyone freaked out of course – she couldn't remember a thing, only that she was cleaning a room in the east wing and fell asleep."

"Is the girl still around?"

"Of course not – she was bitten, witcher."

No matter how often he heard it, Ren would never comprehend this particular superstition. "Vampirism is not contagious. If she survived the encounter, she's probably fine by now."

"Huh. Well, that's a shame. She was a hard worker," Ellenhart clarified when Ren raised his eyebrow.

"Anyway," he continued, "after this incident, we all were alert. Paranoid, even. We locked every entrance to the east wing and hoped we trapped the monstrosity inside. None of us dared walking anywhere alone, only in small groups."

"It didn't work, did it?"

"At first, yes. Or so we thought. But then," Ellenhart grimaced and downed the rest of his drink, "Sigmund, my groundskeeper, may he rest in peace, we found him one morning in the storage rooms, dry like a leaf. He must have wandered the hallways alone at night when the vampire got him."

"Are you sure he was alone?"

Ellenhart's expression turned sour. "Yes, I am. Tell me, witcher, would you tell anyone that you went for a little midnight walk if the purpose of the aforementioned walk was to screw your employer's wife?"

"Point taken. That happened when exactly?"

"Just before Belleteyn."

"And there's been no other incident since?"

Rising from his seat, Ellenhart went to fetch the bottle of brandy, refilled his cup and downed it in one gulp. "No. But there are rumors, gossip... It's the last thing I can afford now." He offered to top off Ren's cup and he let him. "Tomorrow, I'm hosting a banquet that I've been planning for months, with guests from as far as Pont Vanis. It's crucial for it to go well. That's why I turned to you for help as soon as I knew you were in town. If the creature drags one of my guests to the cellar and sucks them dry, I'm done for."

Because he was desperate, Ren knew he could dictate his reward. Some leftover morality begged him not to, but he was desperate a little more. "Based on your description, it could be an alp, or a bruxa. There's a slight chance it could be a higher vampire, almost unrecognizable from humans, but those are extremely rare. Have you employed anybody new before the first incident?"

Ellenhart shook his head.

"My personal guess would be the bruxa – your manor is quite far from the nearest settlement and it could have wandered here from the wilderness. It seems to lure its victim to some place deserted and then strikes. I suggest you keep your guests wherever you plan to host this banquet and lock the rest of the building down. I will face it where it feels strongest, in the empty part of the house."

While he spoke, Ellenhart just kept nodding along. His cup was dry again. "I'll arrange that," he said at last. "Anything to get rid of the- that thing. I want to see its body, see for myself that it's dead, before I pay you."

"Naturally."

"As payment, I can offer you two hundred Novigrad crowns, as well as food and shelter."

"Two hundred and twenty, and we have a deal."

Ellenhart looked fully sober when they shook hands. "Good. The boy, Conrad, will show you around."

 

*

 

Banquets were a thing of a life so long ago that Ren could barely recall it. In a way he was glad Ellenhart asked him not to disturb the guests with his presence. He may have known how to talk and act on such occasions, but his appearance would always betray him. Even if he tried wearing a sheep's clothing, he would always be the wolf.

He kept to the kitchens before things got busy – the cook poured him a bowl of a delicious deer stew but after that made a point to give him a wide berth. At least Ellenhart had the common decency to keep him well fed while in his employ. Not everyone did.

With the party in full swing, Ren got to work. The main hall was bordered by colonnades on all sides, separating the pulsing body of mingling guests from the corridors with dashing servants. He made sure the doors on the further end of the hallway were locked, then he made way to the other entrance leading to the east wing of Ellenhart's manor.

Movement between the columns caught his eye and he made the mistake of looking in its direction. There, a very young noblewoman stood with her back to the music and chatter, one foot clad in a grey-green slipper already in the same corridor as Ren. There was no-one else around – all other guests formed a homogenous mass in the hall and the servants were occupied elsewhere. As he was passing by, Ren unabashedly stared at how her dress clung to her slight frame, seafoam green to compliment her hair – radiant red, tied in a small bun at the base of her skull with a ponytail cascading in playful waves all the way down to her collarbone. Although she wore an intricately embroidered cape over her shoulders, it definitely wasn't to conceal her body; her cleavage exposed the hollow of her breastbone in its entirety, framed by two small perfect breasts, and Ren was convinced the sleeveless dress was kept in place by sheer power of her will.

Their eyes met and suddenly, Ren felt small under her focused attention, no matter he had an inch more to his height and was twice her size. Her irises were the color of a storm-whipped sea, pulling Ren into the undertow, and he had a nagging feeling he had been there before.

A smallest smile curved her lips. She knew. "You look a little lost." Her voice was a clear alto, with a sharper edge that faintly rang of threat.

Ren nodded toward the milling dancefloor. "As do you, if I may."

She laughed – the sound bared her teeth. It likened her to a fox. "You're very observant – I'm surprised, pleasantly so. I cannot say the same about anybody else on this entire property."

"I'm flattered."

"Tell me," she said, stepping closer to him, "what is your business with such a boring man as the viscount Ellenhart? It seems clear to me you are quite something else."

All this time she didn't take her eyes off his. As if his vertical, viper-like pupils didn't unnerve her at all. "I provide certain security services."

"A mercenary then?"

"Have you ever heard of witchers, lady..?"

She offered her hand clad in white calf-skin, a robust golden ring with a scarlet gem perched on her ringfinger. "Niamh," she finished for him as he kissed the air above her knuckles. "And I have, although I did not believe they existed. Forgive me, that was rude."

"Not at all. There aren't many of us left – it's not uncommon to think there are none."

Up close, Niamh was even lovelier. Her face shone with a nearly ethereal beauty, spotless save for one little dot in the middle of her right cheek, but that was more of an embellishment rather than imperfection. Ren was reminded of beautifying elixirs witches sold for staggering prices, whether Niamh dipped her finger in one and smeared its contents under her eyelids. Her lips were the color of a peach ripe for plucking, her nose narrow with a cute, slightly rounded tip. She blinked and her fluttering eyelashes, the same shade as her hair, drew him in, right into her eyes that were sparkling with every kind of grey and blue with a promise of drowning him. "A drifting monster slayer, fighting to protect peace and order in the world, or so I've heard. How should I call you, master witcher?"

"In these parts, I'm known as Ren."

"You must have travelled far and wide, Ren. I'm sure you have all kinds of stories to tell."

He smiled with his eyes. "I've seen some things. But nothing as intriguing as yourself."

"Now you are flattering me," Niamh said, amused, playing with the curled tip of her ponytail. "Forgive me for prying, but your presence commands me to ask – is there indeed a monster in our midst? You do not strike me as a man who enjoys shallow entertainment and venomous gossip."

"Forgive my straightforwardness, but I wouldn't like to cause panic."

She tipped her head back. A challenge. "I am not easily frightened. Besides, I'm with you, a hired professional, ready to jump to my defense should such need arise – there is no reason to panic."

Ren couldn't argue with that logic, as well as her body language. He leaned in, his nose just shy of brushing against her temple. He smelled jasmine and lemon. "There is a vampire somewhere in the manor."

"You mean among the guests?"

"That's not likely, but I need to make sure no-one gets hurt." He felt her shiver as his breath tickled her skin. "It's probably a bruxa."

"I've heard a bruxa can pass as human."

"That is correct."

"How would you recognize it then? For all you know, it could be me."

Ren leaned back, watched how her breath came ever so faster, how her pupils fattened. He lifted his hand to her chin – even through the gauntlet he could feel her heat. "I think I can tell a bruxa when I see one."

"Have you hunted many of them?"

"Dozens."

"What was the most dangerous creature you've encountered?"

"It's hard to pick, but you're definitely the most curious one," he said as he caressed her cheek.

"Don't avoid the question, Ren."

He considered it. "Perhaps a manticore. But I was young then, inexperienced."

"Did the manticore do this to you?" She pointed to the scar splitting his face.

Ren locked eyes with her, unfaltering, and this time he drew a reaction from her, even if it were only the faintest blush tinting her sculpted cheekbones. "No," he said at last, "that was a blade wound."

He felt the weight of her head when she pressed into his palm, her eyelids falling half-shut. "I've also heard," she began in a voice barely audible over the cacophony of music and laughter and chatter, "that a witcher's touch pleasantly tingles on bare skin."

Of course she heard that, Ren thought. "Well, does it?"

"It's hard to tell through the glove," she said, lifting her gaze to his, another question written in her eyes, on her perfect mouth, on the steep fall of her ivory-pale neck.

It didn't take him long to decide; he made sure no-one was looking their way and with a hand on Niamh's lower back, prompted her toward the east wing entrance. The skirt of her dress swirled around his calf, rolling like waves breaking over cliffs. They didn't talk, not even when they were behind locked doors, nor when they entered one of the guest rooms with a very inviting double bed at its end. He let Niamh in, closed the door and turned to face her, and the only thing he could do was to grasp her narrow hips and kiss her. Her arms came to rest on his shoulders, the length of her torso offered to him in a silent gesture. He broke their kiss to lift her up and she wrapped around him, snake-like, as he carried her to bed; she sank into the pillows with a soft sigh and Ren envied them, envied how they hugged her ribcage and cradled her head, how they whispered at her every move, as if in praise.

With a bit of fumbling, she managed to take one of his gauntlets off, paused as if suddenly afraid to learn the truth behind the rumour; he fought the smile spreading on his face as he was unbuckling agonizingly slowly his other gauntlet instead of indulging her.

She voiced her displeasure.

"Impatient, aren't we?"

"You're cruel, witcher."

"You don't seem like an angel to me either," he said as he tossed the remaining gauntlet on the floor and started at his vest, "quite a few succubi would envy you your... Charm."

"Don't act like you can be so easily swayed – we both know we wouldn't be here if either of us wouldn't have wanted to."

Ren pulled his shirt off and revelled in the hungry look she gave him. "True," he simply said and ran his bare hand down her cheek, to her jaw and throat; she let her mouth fall open, gasped when he splayed one palm in the middle of her chest and reached for her face with the other. Her skin was smooth and warm, warmer than he remembered a human body to be. Perhaps he'd gone far too long without somebody else's touch. Leaning forward, Ren rubbed small circles into her neck, the exposed hollow of her chest, trailed a chain of kisses from her lips to the dimple between her collarbones. She started to relax into it, one of her hands found its way into his hair, scratched at his scalp.

She pulled at his hair when he reached the soft silk of her dress. "Will you help me undress?"

"You thought I wouldn't try that on my own?"

"I thought you might try ripping my dress off. I'm rather fond of it, you see."

He sat back and took the scene in. "It does suit you."

"A real charmer," Niamh said as she unclasped the fine chain holding her cape in its place. "You're full of surprises."

He took care of her gloves first, left arm, then right. He had to remove the ring, and in the spur of the moment he slipped it on the ringfinger of her bare left hand, smiling to himself about the implication. It made her laugh, loud and clear in the quiet of the room, and for the first time he could appreciate all the subtle tones in her voice. When he reached out for the dress she lay flat on her back, unmoving, pale arms bent at her elbows and resting on either side of her head. For a moment Ren struggled with the tiny buttons, but if nothing else, he was a fast learner, and soon the fabric was coming apart, revealing a stripe of uncharted land; she arched her back to help him in his endeavor, and he held his breath as the silk gave way to taut plains and soft valleys, gently curved borderlines and pink nipples. He uncovered a smooth, black garter belt hugging her hips and had to chuckle as he pulled lower and discovered she wasn't wearing anything else save for the belt and matching black lace stockings. "You were planning something, weren't you," he teased when he put the dress aside.

"Maybe. I did come to socialize, you know." She reached for his arm and tugged at it, beckoning him closer. "Now assure me I didn't choose poorly."

That vicious spark in her eyes from earlier returned and Ren could not resist. Her knees fell apart when he nudged them; he let himself be pulled in for a toothy kiss that all but scalded his tongue. Hands roaming, he worshipped her, holding onto every sound she made, onto the sensation of her nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed every inch of her chest, her soft belly, the hollow next to her hipbone that opened so many possibilities.

She adjusted her legs on his shoulders, urging him forward. He teased one last time by sucking a mark on her silky smooth inner thigh, just above the hem of the lace. He bit into it before parting, as a promise, and she hissed.

"Careful, Ren."

Her taste was spicy on his tongue. Addictive. Ren loved it – how her thighs squeezed his skull, how she shuddered under each swipe of his tongue, how her voice cracked when his fingers found her sweet spot. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, to keep him in place – as if he would ever leave. Arousal washed through him, made him ache, but that could wait; he didn't care for a thing in the world except delivering Niamh's pleasure.

Her voice climbed an octave when she came, her whole body rocked by a violent shiver. He tried committing it to memory as best as he could, all of her at once, and yet he couldn't help being overwhelmed by this glorious creature. He barely managed to free himself from the confines of his leather leggings; Niamh let her legs fall to the mattress, allowed him to climb atop her and succumb to his own need. She sighed, her expression blissed out from her orgasm, loose and inviting. Unruly strands of gold-red hair clung to her forehead and nape, her hands traced a pattern across his torso identical to his scars. She never stopped looking at him, small smile playing at her lips, encouraging him. It was only now he noticed the green in her eyes.

Gorgeous, he thought, and her smile grew as if she had heard.

 

*

 

The elixir's effect arrived as he was sitting at the edge of the bed and pondering where to go from here. He felt it in the rush of blood in his ears, confirmed it by how his ashen complexion turned an unhealthy shade of moonlight white, how his veins turned a disturbing purple. He resealed the now empty flask and set it aside.

Niamh seemed unperturbed, lounging on the tangled sheets. Her hair broke free and fell to her narrow shoulders. The ring was still on her left hand, gleaming like a drop of blood on steel.

When he was made, the sorceress in charge of his mutation process told him he would lose the ability to recognize emotions. Except now, Ren was certain the heavy weight in his stomach wasn't any elixir-induced side-effect, but a budding sorrow, and longing.

Her knuckles brushed against his flank in a gentle caress. He sighed.

"What's the matter?"

Ren turned to her, tried to take all of her in for one last time. She was still beautiful – would never not be. "I don't know how you did it." Her expression didn't change, but the hand on his flank stopped. "I wouldn't have thought it possible, but I know it's you."

She sat up so they were face to face, close enough for Ren to reach but he could feel the chasm growing between them. "You're delirious. Whatever was in that bottle you drank?"

"An irrelevant concoction for an irrelevant task," he said, "unimportant. I'm more concerned with this."

She was trying so hard not to let it show, but even her iron will could not dispel the storm brewing in her eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"About you, Hux."

"You're mad."

He shook his head. "I'd know these anywhere," he said as he cupped her face. "That tongue-lashing you gave me made sure of that. You have very memorable eyes."

"And you are getting obnoxiously sentimental."

"Perhaps. If you don't want sentiments, fine." He let go and nodded to the ring. "Scarlet emeralds are rare."

Niamh – Hux – shook with barely suppressed rage.

This time, Ren did not enjoy it.

"Why? Are you that petty you tried distracting me from work so I wouldn't be able to set foot in Tretogor ever again?"

"And I succeeded," Niamh barked at him, voice stone-cold. Now the resemblance was uncanny – just like Hux, fury made her glow with a terrible kind of beauty that chilled Ren to the bone. "While you've been here, your bruxa could have gone and feasted on every one of those mindless gluttons in the hall. Doing the god's work, really," she snarled, "you have no idea who you are protecting, hexer."

"It's really funny being judged by your moral compass, given the circumstances. The thing is," Ren continued, "bruxae are intelligent. Why would it risk exposure and go on a killing spree in a crowded room when there's already a perfect candidate, off-guard and alone?"

Just as he finished there was a knock at the door, as if he planned for it. The sound startled Niamh, and the momentary loss of her composure was all he needed. "I'm sorry, sweet," he murmured, nuzzling a kiss to her blazing cheek, "gotta work."

She watched him rise and draw his silver sword that lay forgotten on the floor, under a pile of clothes, her lips pressed into a tight line. Sober and furious. She laid back on the pillows, sprawled there like some giant cat, unashamed of her nudity.

She was magnificent.

A cruel smile blossomed on her kiss-swollen lips. "I'll enjoy watching it tear you to shreds."

With the weapon ready, Ren opened the door.

In hiding, bruxae often took form of alluring women; this one wasn't an exception. The moment she saw Ren however, her face contorted into something vaguely human and utterly grotesque, her white dress into filthy rags, her hands into sharp talons. With a deafening shriek, she sprang forward.

He was faster – he sidestepped and cut at the creature's uncovered flank, from hip to shoulder. The pain tipped her into frenzy and Ren had to mobilize all his strength to parry her blows. They circled each other, Ren forcing her to exert the wounded side. She lunged and bit into his upper arm, immediately jerked away as if burned, sputtering and wailing.

Ren spun to deliver the killing blow, but the bruxa fought for survival. In an attempt to flee, she leapt toward the bed, but Niamh lazily waved her hand and the bruxa hit a shimmering barrier. She stumbled and fell to one knee.

Ren didn't allow her enough time to recover – sword in both hands, he drove it into the monster's back from above, pinning her down to the sound of her shrieks. She twitched, once, twice.

The screams died down. He pulled the sword out and the bruxa's corpse collapsed with a dull thud.

In the sudden silence, Ren evaluated the damage; the wound in his arm wasn't deep and otherwise there was only a spray of bruxa blood across his naked chest. Not bad, considering what led up to the fight.

With a swoosh, the barrier dissipated and Ren looked at the bed. Niamh was still there – in the daring pose unapologetic about the lack of clothes, in the elegant head-tilt, in the emanating confidence and elegance, but it was Hux staring back at him, sharp and unimpressed. He didn't bother covering himself, nor removing the lace stockings. The mark Ren sucked into his thigh was still there.

"Are you quite done?" Hux said into the ringing silence.

Unsure whether he referred to the job or his staring, Ren chose to go with the former. He pointed to the carcass at his feet. "See for yourself."

"Gross."

He picked up the scabbard from the floor. "I'm surprised you're still here. Not that I complain," he added as he put the sheathed sword down.

Hux stayed put, even when Ren seated himself at the edge of the bed within arm's reach. He noticed the ring was still where he put it and couldn't help the wave of satisfaction washing over him.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, I'm still mad."

"Then stop reading my mind."

"Your thoughts are so loud I could hear them from the Moon. How you go on about your life with that chaos I cannot fathom."

Ren laughed, hard enough that his shoulders shook. "You tell me about chaos, you who reasoned that the best way to piss me off was to give me the best fuck of the decade."

"Only the decade?"

It may have been a trick of light, but it appeared Hux's eyes lost some of the hardness, that his mouth wasn't so tightly drawn anymore. Ren pushed his luck and leaned closer, and Hux allowed it. "You could try again. Surprise me."

Hux stared back at him; Ren dared interpreting his silence as consideration. He raised his hand slow enough to keep track of Hux's expression, searching for a slightest sign of repulsion or unwillingness, but none ever came. His skin was unnaturally warm. "How did you change yourself?"

"I did not 'change'. I've been myself all along."

"You know what I mean. I'm sorry if I lack the appropriate language."

"You don't need to pretend being docile."

"The last thing I want is to anger you, with your talents."

"You really must be underfucked."

"I meant your magic abilities."

"Oh."

"So?"

"Polymorphy isn't anything new."

Ren stroke the length of Hux's jaw, continued to the gentle slope of his nape. It was all so comforting in its familiarity, and yet so new. He felt like he could spend years tracing Hux's outlines, nothing more, sure that his fascination wouldn't abate even after a lifetime. "I've seen witches turning into animals, but never anything close to this. The possibility has never crossed my mind."

"That's exactly it. No-one has ever bothered to stop and think about the possibility. Mages can be very narrow-minded – ironic, for how they consider themselves to be the most liberal thinkers."

"You're a mage too."

Hux gave him the sweetest smile. "I'm special."

Ren couldn't argue with that.

"Why is your blood black?" Hux asked.

"Want to study my organs already?"

"I can't deny your organism is highly interesting from a strictly scientific point of view, but no, I'm not talking autopsy here. I'm merely curious."

"The elixir I drank earlier makes witcher's blood poisonous to blood-sucking monsters. Very useful against vampires. It should be wearing off now."

"On such a short notice? Fascinating."

"Keep your scalpel to yourself, please."

"I'll try."

Ren paused, drawing circles on Hux's silky smooth chest. It gave off heat similar to a blacksmith's furnace.

"No, I'm definitely not a dragon."

"Stop doing that."

"Then think about something less stupid. What kind of a witcher are you if you can't recognize a dragon of all things?"

"Gold dragons are mythical creatures and no other dragon can shapeshift."

"Good thing they're not real then, or you'd be done with your witchering."

He hovered over Hux, their faces mere inches apart. "Do you still hate me?"

"I'm still here, aren't I."

"You caused me way more trouble than I could ever hope to cause you."

For the first time since the start of this conversation, Hux reached out to touch him. His fingerpads prickled on Ren's skin as he slid down his pectoral, warmer than ever before. A warning. A promise. Ren would take them all. "I can burn you to cinder with a single thought."

He searched his eyes, those pools of grey and green and blue, half-hidden behind fans of fluttering lashes. Again he was smitten by the mere existence of this creature. Entranced, he splayed his hands on either side of Hux's ribcage. A dormant volcano pulsed against his palms. "I know."

Hux closed the distance, and the touch cut deep, into the very core of Ren's essence. Hux's lips were chapped and raw and perfect, his breath steam-hot on Ren's cheeks. He burned so bright Ren was convinced he might set the world alight.

He did his.

Ren pushed the thought away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Hux's back and thought of Zerrikanian legends he had heard an eternity ago, about adventure and treasure hordes and dragons.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://mini-mantis.tumblr.com/)


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